


I only love the things that I can hurt

by mwildsides



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A/B/O, Bonding, Bottom Sam, Community: spnkink_meme, Fingering, First Time, Knotting, Light Feminization, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, POV Changes, Self-Lubrication, bad jeffrey dahmer reference, bad movie references, my bad John Winchester, shhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:24:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10919904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwildsides/pseuds/mwildsides
Summary: forthisprompt on spnkink:"Dean and Sam are sparring after Sam gets his Stanford acceptance letter. Dean's feeling possessive and proud and angry, doesn't want his Sammy to leave but he also wants him to be happy- when he bites Sam's neck. Neither of them know what it means until John comes home and explains about a small portion of society being a/b/o. (I'm imagining omegas don't activate until they're 18 as a self-defense mechanism.)Bonus points for John knowing beforehand and purposefully keeping it from the boys in hopes that something like this would happen. He no longer has to worry about Sam striking out on his own."





	I only love the things that I can hurt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mindyfication](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindyfication/gifts).



> for [this](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/121551.html?thread=43539663#t43539663) prompt on spnkink: 
> 
> "Dean and Sam are sparring after Sam gets his Stanford acceptance letter. Dean's feeling possessive and proud and angry, doesn't want his Sammy to leave but he also wants him to be happy- when he bites Sam's neck. Neither of them know what it means until John comes home and explains about a small portion of society being a/b/o. (I'm imagining omegas don't activate until they're 18 as a self-defense mechanism.)
> 
> Bonus points for John knowing beforehand and purposefully keeping it from the boys in hopes that something like this would happen. He no longer has to worry about Sam striking out on his own."

The rental house, Dean thinks, is dad’s last ditch effort to keep Sam. Show him hey, this life ain’t so bad, we have stability every...couple’a years, why would you wanna leave  _ that _ behind? 

 

They’re coping with it in different ways, basically. 

 

Dean prefers things as he always has, fighting his brother, showing him with words and ugly physicality that this is where he belongs, they’re family god dammit. It may not be pretty suburban perfect like Sam has apparently always wanted, but it’s  _ theirs, _ a sort of secret they’re all keeping from the world, among others. 

 

But Sam apparently won’t have it.  _ I don’t give a fuck about dad’s mission Dean, jesus, how can you not see he’s using you? That’s all he’s been doing our entire lives.  _ They’d gotten into it at the last motel, scrapped and broke enough hotel furniture to get dad even angrier. 

 

Things have been real, real ugly lately. Sour. 

 

And that’s probably why Sam agreed to spar with Dean, one of the only parts of training he’ll agree to anymore.  _ You know I can hit a bullseye with my eyes closed, ‘m not doing it,  _ he started to mumble.  _ Silver, iron, salt, holy water. Exorcisamus te - Yeah Sammy, fine, I get it.  _

 

Dean thinks maybe now they just want to flay each other’s skin off, get to the real problems, get all the blood and bone out into the open for the neighbors to see. The Winchester Brothers, a one night only event. 

 

Sam’s fingernails burn welts into Dean’s skin when he throws his big brother, sidesteps to avoid getting caught around the middle but has to inflict some sort of injury in the meantime. Dean whirls and hisses at the sting, squares up on Sam who is bright-eyed and coiled ready for whatever is coming his way. 

 

He’s as quick as he’s ever been, at the top of his game, in Dean’s mind. Right up until he’d turned 16, Sam was baby soft and beautiful, had a sort of femininity that put hot fear down deep in big brother’s gut for reasons he couldn’t put a finger on. He stopped watching Sam so much until he started sprouting angles, all that sun-kissed browned butter skin stretching too tight over his knobby little frame. Then he went from knock-kneed and boyish to a tall, lean cut wraith with too much he wasn’t saying obvious in the sidelong glance of those iridescent eyes. 

 

Even as they throw their bodies at one another with the intent to wound, some sort of hurt that will finally break the tether and make Sam’s leaving Okay, Dean knows he’s never going to love anything the way he loves Sam. Never  _ has,  _ either, and it’s just something, a truth his body knows on an atomic level. 

 

It’s worse because Sam apparently doesn’t feel the same way, and Dean wants to laugh. 

 

Sam’s long, sharp fingers are in his hair, pulling back and twisting his fist to get Dean to break his hold, but he won’t. They’re both sweating in the early spring sun, an uncharacteristically hot day for March, but somehow their skin doesn’t slip, doesn’t make them sloppy--maybe they’ve fought through that and trained it out of their muscle memory. Instead Dean’s hands stay locked in at Sam’s shoulders, wide now compared to what they used to be, and one behind his neck.

 

While Dean was a little miffed about Sam’s superior height at first, eventually he figured out it just meant his center of gravity was higher, and that Dean was closer to its tipping point--so it’s easy to slip down to Sam’s waist, heave  _ up  _ and topple him straight over a shoulder. It puts Sam on his back, flat on the patchy grass, and for the few seconds it takes Dean to get on him again, Sam’s mouth gapes open as he fights for a breath. 

 

Dad is sitting on the porch a handful of feet away, the shitty plastic furniture that had been left with the house creaking under his weight when he leans forward to set down a barrel or a slide or an empty clip on the table. It’s incidental that he’s out here the same time as his boys, apparently. 

 

Dean twists himself around Sam’s back, tangles up their arms and legs until his baby brother is all but immobile, but still fighting like a fucking fish on a hook. He’s damn strong, too, and Dean’s grip slips on his brother’s wrist just a fraction of an inch, which might be too much--

 

And he doesn’t know what makes him do it, maybe it’s Sam’s sweat-soaked hair stuck to his cheek, maybe it’s the animal growls, the hissing and spitting like a wet cat, or the fact that Sam’s body is writhing up tight against his--even afterward Dean doesn’t really get it. 

 

He opens his mouth, lets his teeth latch onto the delicate softness of Sam’s neck where it meets his shoulder, and it’s like his jaw hinges closed on a brutal bite of its own free will. Dean can’t gauge Sam’s reaction, doesn’t know if he breaks skin, not right away at least, because something in him lifts, like a latch from a door just before someone pushes it wide. 

 

Things slide, and Sam stops fighting him within the space of a breath. The noise he makes is hurt, yeah, but not...not like Dean’s used to, and it almost makes him uncomfortable to hear with dad so close. 

 

“ _ Dean, _ ” Sam says finally, voice thready and breaking like it’s been abused with sickness or disuse. 

 

Dean resurfaces, finds his mouth full of the taste of Sam’s blood.

 

“ _ Dean!” _ This voice is distant and almost unfamiliar. “Dean, let him  _ go!” _ Right, their father. John. John Winchester. 

 

They untangle in a hurry, almost throwing themselves away from one another so they can kneel, pant, and stare at one another in the dirt. 

 

Sam’s eyes are wide and his lips are trembling as he reaches a hand up to palm at the wound, fairly shallow but still enough. More than enough. He stares at Dean like he’d done something absolutely bat shit fucking crazy, but Dean doesn’t...feel that way…

 

In fact he feels better than he has in the last month; since Sam turned 18, since he told them he was going away. 

 

Right now that seems so secondary to Dean, because all he wants to do is hold Sam against him like that even if it means feeling his brother fight him.

 

“The fuck did you do!” Dad is hollering and pulling him to his feet by his hair, and Dean goes easily, raising his hands like there’s a gun on him. 

 

However angry Sam may have been at his brother’s less-than-fair end move, he’s even  _ less  _ pleased with how dad handles Dean. 

 

“Let him go,” he growls, lips curled in disgust while his blood runs down one side of his naked chest. 

 

Dean smiles, an open mouthed, dopey looking thing that he absolutely has no control over. He just...god he  _ loves  _ Sam, he’s so fucking proud of the beautiful creature he’s grown into. 

 

Dad quite literally changes his tune when he breathes, “ _ Sam,” _ all soft and devastated as John goes to inspect his youngest boy. Sam shies away from it but John insists, holding a shoulder with one calloused hand, bending Sam’s head aside with the other for a better view. 

 

Dean doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like this, that’s not - Sam’s not his that’s  _ Dean’s-- _

 

Which should be odd, disconcerting thoughts to be thinking while watching your father and brother, but Dean can’t find it in himself to be perturbed about it. Instead he just wants those hands  _ off  _ and  _ away. _ Wrong, wrong, what’s going on?

 

“What did you do, fuck…” Dad’s hands brace on Sam’s shoulders like he’d collapse if he weren’t. His head hangs between his shoulders, but Sam looks over them at Dean like he might have an answer. 

 

“What...dad, what - “ Dean moves to take a step toward their father, but stops dead when John turns on him with a vicious, animal sort of growl Dean has never,  _ ever _ heard him make. 

 

It makes him fucking angry, but he recoils from it, and Sam slaps dad’s hands away in favor of stepping around him, between Dean and dad. 

 

“Go inside,” John grits through bared, clenched teeth, “clean up.” 

 

Something in Dean’s  _ guts  _ fights that, but forces him to obey, too, and he’s fucking confused, and a hell of a lot more than a bit worried, which he sees mirrored on Sam’s face as they both duck their heads and skulk into the house. 

 

Dean swallows as he shoulders inside after Sam, because he still has blood on his mouth quickly drying on his lips, but he can smell it in the air too. He doesn't understand what's happening, and can tell by the slump of Sam’s shoulders, he doesn't either. In fact when he glances back at Dean over his shoulder, on their way to the tiny, shared bathroom, he looks afraid and uncertain. A drastic change from five minutes ago to say the least. 

 

They’ve been in this house less than a week, but the three of them have their things scattered all over; dad’s bag where he keeps his razor secreted away like someone’s going to take it from him, Sammy’s Old Spice rolled up near to the end, a bottle of witch hazel, a pearl-handled razor Dean had ponied up a good hundred dollars for a few years back and cared for like a child, and next to it some drug-store aftershave. 

 

Sam turns on the hot water, which takes about five minutes to actually get warm, but leans over the sink and starts messily splashing it up to his neck and chest. It sends pink water splattering all over the bowl and the yellowy not-quite-marble counter, which Dean watches for a second, before whipping a washcloth off the towel rack above the toilet. 

 

“C’mon, Sammy, you’re makin’ a mess,” he mutters, quiet but tolerant because this is technically his fault. He shoulders his way between Sam and the counter and starts wiping up the red-brown-pink mess of water sliding in rivulets down Sam’s goosebumped skin. 

 

“Jesus, you’re not even going to  _ apologize? _ ” Sam snaps, which Dean should have seen coming. Instead he rinses the rag, the waters hot now, and turns back to press it against the double crescent moons he left on his brother. 

 

“Don’t know why I did it,” Dean says instead, eyes flicking up to Sam’s. Up. Dammit. “I don’t uh…I just...maybe it’s the heat, I don’t know, I just feel weird, so.” 

 

He turns his attention back to the washcloth, lifts it up to see the wound on Sam isn’t bleeding any longer. It doesn’t even look irritated anymore, in fact it looks...a day old already, and Dean would know, he’s pretty familiar with the look of wounds. Despite wanting to put up a front for his brother, Dean frowns at Sam, and gets that look right back. 

 

“What?” Sam asks him softly, eyebrows getting a little twitchy with their set-in frown. 

 

“‘S it hurt?” Dean presses a bit harder on the wound then lets up so he can rinse the rag in the sink again. More warm, pinkbrown water, he glances up at Sam in the mirror. There’s a flush high in his brother’s cheeks, that cutepretty blush the one thing that makes him look like a baby now and then. It’s heartbreaking. 

 

“No.” Heartbreaking too is his soft sigh of the word, and the almost calm look on his face. Placid. 

 

Dean splashes water on his face, his lips and cheeks then slurps some of it up and spits it out so he won’t have the taste of Sam’s blood on his tongue for the rest of the day. 

 

“ _ Dean, Sam _ !” Dad hollers, like he has a thousand times in a thousand houses like this; except now, Dean feels a physical pull, and a fight against the urge he can’t explain. It’s frustrating as all hell, and more than a little frightening. 

 

Both of them startle at hearing their names, and Dean turns the faucet off, and turns, nods to Sam who clearly, clearly doesn’t want to go. 

 

“It’s okay,” Dean says with a nod, even though there's no real reason for him to, no reason for Sam to be intrepid other than their father’s odd behavior. Still, it seems to help, and his little brother’s shoulders relax just a fraction of an inch before he leaves the bathroom. 

 

Out in the dining room-cum-family room, dad's at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. He's already got a glass of something on ice, and Dean clenches his jaw, lets his chin tick up a fraction of an inch so he doesn't look so much like a frightened child. Like he does going into most conversations with dad, Sam’s lips are curled in a mirror image of what they were earlier, a scowl of disgust. Dean wishes for once he'd just--

 

Whatever. 

  
  


John doesn't have to tell his boys to sit, they do without hesitation, but of course Sam is glaring at his father like he was the one who just nearly took a bite out of Sam. 

 

“You boys alright?” John asks, glancing between them. Dean looks scared, but there's an edge of anger in the green of his eyes that he obviously doesn't understand. 

 

It's the alpha in him, the fight, the protest. 

 

“Tell us what's going on,” Sam answers with no preamble, nothing from his big brother, his--

 

John sighs, scrubs a hand over his face that desperately needs a shave, then tips his whiskey up to his lips and drains the finger he'd poured. He'd never really had to have “the talk” with either son, save for telling Dean almost constantly to fucking use protection, for god’s sake. Sam never chased skirts the way his brother did, and anyway the kid wasn’t stupid, probably actually  _ paid attention _ in sex ed. 

 

This was going to be so, so much worse. 

 

“I know you two can already feel it,” John starts, picking at a scratch on the table that isn’t theirs, making it worse, wider. “Can smell it on you already.” 

 

Of course his boys had their certain smells, things that belonged to each of them as individual as their fingerprints, and now they were changing.

 

“Dad, what -” 

 

“Dean, just,” John holds up a had, doesn’t put anything real behind it that might  _ force _ Dean, “you know. I know you’ve felt it before, that you’re a little..sharper.” 

 

He watches Sam look at Dean, a frown just barely teasing at his brow like his big brother might be complicit in whatever is going on. 

 

“I don’t - “ Dean gives an aborted shake of his head, “I mean I didn’t think...what about it?” 

 

“You know that with werewolves, real wolves, there’s an order to things within packs. There’s an alpha, the leader, and so on and so forth.”

 

The boys don’t nod, don’t have anything witty or biting to say, they just stare back at John expectantly. So he plows ahead. 

 

“It’s rare, but some humans...some families, generally it runs in families--they’re wired that way, biologically. So there’s an alpha who mates with a beta or an omega, they uh - “ 

 

The weight of what Dean did hit John almost immediately, but now, saying this stuff out loud is gnawing at him in a different way.  _ Is this bad? Dean was bound to follow Sam around like a lost puppy for his life and now Sam...would Sam still leave? This could mean they stay together for life, even if it’s - _

 

He can’t start thinking about the “biological imperative” part of mating, right now.

 

“They mate, they uh. Bond, it’s a for-life thing. Generally it’s to procreate, because males and... females can um...have- have kids….”

 

Sam’s eyes are lit with a fire John recognizes pretty well, all of that righteous indignation fanned to a conflagration of  _ rage. _ John can  _ smell  _ it, hot, sour anger shivering off of Sam in waves, and when Dean grimaces, he knows his oldest boy smells it too. 

 

“Let me guess,” Sam all but whispers, lips barely moving, “our family is one of those families.” 

 

John nods, almost sheepish, and stares at the table. 

 

“What - what does that mean I - why does - dad, tell us what’s going on, christ!” Dean only ever stammers over his word like that when he’s this bad kind of anxious, when he gets so keyed up that John can nearly see the whites of his eyes around his irises. It happens when Sam is hurt, or where Sam is concerned period, so this makes sense. 

 

“I’m an alpha. That’s why you feel...compelled more often than not to obey me, even though you’re an alpha just like I am.” He says it stern, quick, and gives Dean a moment. 

 

Sam looks over at him with a frown, like his big brother has grown tentacles out of his ears or something equally horrifying even though outwardly, nothing has changed for either of them. 

 

“Sam you - “ John shakes his head, rubs at his eyes with fingers too rough for anything good. “You're not, not like us - “

 

Sam’s laugh is bitter. “Thanks for the reminder.” And Dean looks over at him like it'll help. 

 

“I wasn't sure, when you were born, which exactly it was..but um. Omegas sometimes don't show until they're of...till they're of age, or they find a mate. Their bodies don't change, there's no inkling that they're any different.” 

 

Silence settles again, and once more the boys look at each other, eyes searching like they're they ones who have the answers, and that just  _ looking _ is enough. 

 

John had been worried, but watching them now, he wonders if he's too late.

 

Dean watches Sam with something between adoration and pity, which makes Sam frown. 

 

“So when Dean bit me, it - it triggered my...my...whatever…” Sam isn't looking at either of them now, for shame, maybe. His cheeks are pink.

 

“It's more than that, but yeah.” John inhales, and exhales deeply, reaching for his glass even though he knows it's empty. He tips it up anyway, gets a taste of watered down alcohol.

 

“You've seen wolves fight,” he says, “the alpha gets a grip on the other wolf, by the back of the neck cause usually it's a threat of death. This is...it’s the same, only it's something that two - two mates do. It creates a bond, you'll be able to feel it, but it’s….there's no way to verbalize it, really.”

 

John looks at his boys, and even though this could be good for them, there's a feeling in his gut that's sinking like a fucking rock. 

 

“You belong to one another.”

  
  


Dad goes on for a little while longer to explain...whatever this is, whatever is going on with Sam’s body. He can feel a vague discomfort in the pit of his stomach that he wouldn't quite call hurt, but it pales in comparison to the nausea welling up there too.

 

Their father knew about this.

 

He let this happen. 

 

Sam swallows and stares, eyes unfocused, at the table as Dean asks a question, and dad stammers his way through it--he's truly in rare form, all contrite and sheepish. Whatever they're talking about Sam isn't listening, he's just thinking.

 

He's not angry at Dean--he didn't know what the fuck he was doing. He's honestly not even scared, because Sam has known his whole life he was a freak, different, something wrong; he just has a name for it now. 

 

Omega. Huh. 

 

For now the conversation seems to be over; Dean is beet red beside him, and won't look at Sam or their father, who is equally chagrined, apparently.

 

“So you knew,” Sam speaks up finally, leveling a gaze at dad. “Twenty two years. And didn't bother to say a fuckin thing.” 

 

Not a question.

 

“Sam, it's not like that, you know i- “ 

 

“Bullshit? It’s exactly like that, you kn- you knew something was wrong with me, and you never said a damn thing.” 

 

“Sam!” Johns getting gruff, pissed off just by the fact that Sam is talking to him like this. He does it quite a bit now days. 

 

“You knew that something like this could happen, and never bothered saying anything. Cause, why, you just didn’t care? Didn’t occur to you that it mattered t-” 

 

“You’re brothers, for fuck’s sake, Sam!” Dad bellows, finally, slamming his fist into the table hard enough to knock the bottle of whiskey over between them. He curses, reaches his shaking hands out to catch it before it spills entirely, then slumps back into his seat. A lock of hair fell forward onto his forehead, and he pushed it back with one hand. 

 

“You’re brothers, this doesn’t - this doesn’t happen between families, it’s not fucking supposed to happen like in the rest of the world.” The strong, stoic facade he almost always has on cracks just a little when he says that, and Sam almost wants to laugh. 

 

“So incest is out of the question, huh - “ He does laugh. “No - no brother’s accidentally - no - “ 

 

He can’t speak any more for the laughter, actually. It’s silent but he shakes with it, they choke off his words, and when it starts to hurt in his stomach, Sam wraps his arms around it and lets himself lean halfway off the chair. 

 

“Sammy, c’mon,” Dean murmurs, and Sam feels that...he feels that near silent tug, like a tiny voice in his head whispering  _ hey, hey pay attention! _ A hand pulling at all the tubes and arteries and aorta of his heart, insistent fingers on his superior vena cava telling him that this is someone he cannot will not ignore. 

 

Sam isn’t laughing anymore, not really, but he’s sobbing while he grins. He’s crying out of anger, he thinks with some measure of shame. He hates that he does that. 

 

“Ohh fuck,” Sam sighs, trying to get a hold of himself, “I’m sorry, I just, when I think you can’t treat us any worse, like I thought - I th- I thought the way you - you treat Dean like a slave - like I thought that was - I thought that was bad but - “ 

 

“Sam,” Dean whispers, “quit.” 

 

Sam’s mouth snaps shut and he looks and Dean, incredulous, because he didn’t...want to stop talking, but he wants…

 

“You’re okay with this?” Sam whispers then, like their father isn’t there. “You’re just gonna sit back and say hey, yeah, biology strung us together forever now and dad didn’t tell us, but it’s cool Sammy, chill out.” 

 

Of course, then again, why would Dean have a problem? It means he can have Sam and play along with dad’s bullshit and Sam couldn’t do anything about it. He isn’t complicit but he might as well be. 

 

“You know it’s not like that, he didn’t even know you - that you - what - “

 

Yeah, yeah, he didn’t know. Whatever. 

 

Sam pushes up from his chair, and makes it to the door in a few long strides, throws it wide and steps out into the Pennsylvania spring. It’s late afternoon now, the sun setting and the clouds that had been hovering on the horizon all day take that as their cue to start rolling in, looming ominous and dark. 

 

The street they’re living on is an odd mix of residential and rural, the neighborhood is surrounded by sort-of woods, just a bunch of trees with dead leaves around their bases, fallen trunks of trees who just couldn’t stand to watch the urbanization all around them. Sam skirts the trees across from the houses, he’d go in but he didn’t want to get struck by lightning and when Dean came looking, he wouldn’t be able to see Sam through the trees from where he was looking out the Impala’s passenger side window. 

 

He falls into a jog to keep his body heat up in the rapidly cooling air, and to justify being out on the street in thin mesh track shorts and no shirt on. It bleeds some of the anger out of him, working his muscles just as hard as he can, and Sam doesn’t exactly feel better about any of this, doesn’t understand it, but at least he’s...calm. 

 

A cramp in his stomach stops him, and Sam stops, bending over panting with his hands on his knees, a little worried maybe he pushed himself too hard. The sun is gone, the street flooded with old yellow light, and because he can’t make himself go home yet, Sam lowers himself to the curb, props his forearms on his still too bony knees. 

 

His body is telling him to go home. He doesn’t know how, or why, but he’s craving Dean now, wanting just to be near him like he never does, but he does. 

 

Sam loves his brother, desperately. Of course, and wants to be with him almost always, but he’s feeling something different now. Not in a way he can quantify or define, but he has a feeling it’s got something to do with this “biological imperative”, or the hurt deep in his belly that’s throbbing now. 

 

He turns the words dad had used over in his mind. Alpha, beta, omega. Heat, conceive, mate, bond. It’s all awkward, sounds silly like it’s not real. Sam really still doesn’t know much, other than the fact that he is, among other things, omega. He could have kids. Himself, physically, could bear children now that it...now that it knew it could, that it had someone to mate with. 

 

It’s incidental to his body that his “mate” is also his brother. 

 

In his head things aren’t so...happenstance. 

 

He loves Dean. He’s wanted Dean. Put that thought away forever ago, but that doesn’t make it any less true; now he’s squirming a little with the thought that he might have a chance, if only because of what they are. 

 

His brother’s omega, that’s what he was. He belonged to Dean, although, hadn’t he always? Now it was just on paper. 

 

If Sam was being honest with himself, he liked that, liked it a lot. 

 

It’s been raining for about ten minutes before the Chevy’s familiar headlights cut two glaring lights through the deluge, sweep over and down the street until the car comes to a stop across the sidewalk from where Sam’s sitting. Dean rolls down the window. 

 

“You wanna get in, or you wanna stay out and get hypothermia?” It’s funny, because it’s worded in a way that would not  _ force  _ Sam into it. Sam laughs and shakes his head, pushes his hand through his soaked hair before he pushes himself up to stand, and yeah, he’s fucking cold. 

 

“Think my biology would even allow it?” He hollers back over the rush of the rain. 

 

When he slides into the passenger side of the Impala, Dean’s smiling. 

 

“You okay?” He asks quietly, gently. His eyes are soft too.

 

“Cold, wet,” Sam shrugs, rubs his arm as the engine rumbles to life again, and Dean doesn’t say anything as he drives them back home. 

 

The heat isn’t on in the car, but Sam is warm just sitting next to his brother, and he can’t stop looking at him, watching his hands on the wheel. He very suddenly wants to feel them in his, worn hard gun callouses, knuckles scarred from breaking on bone and teeth, a few times for Sam himself. Sam wanted to kiss them and feel them on his face, scoot over the bench seat and wrap his arms around Dean. 

 

He doesn’t, and they go home. 

  
  


Dad’s gone, dad’s been gone since Dean left, apparently, and that’s...honestly that’s okay with him. He needs some time with Sam, so the two of them can...stagger their way through at least a little bit of conversation, but they need to do it. 

 

While Sam warms up in the shower, Dean makes them sandwiches and sits on the couch to watch Surf Nazi’s Must Die and wait for his brother. For the hour and a half Sam was gone, Dean had what was probably his first panic attack. Being apart from his brother was never fun, he never enjoyed it, but it was also never this bad; even dad was fucking freaked out. 

 

“Dean, breathe, come on,” John had said, a hand on Dean’s back, voice gently firm. “It’ll pass. It’s just...you’ve gotta get used to it, son.” 

 

Dean, who had his head on his knees, was wishing his dad would go the fuck away. He wanted everything to fucking go away, so he could be alone, so he could get rid of this hideous crawling in his skin, and have Sam back. When would Sam be back? 

 

“Wh - what?” Dean was gasping for air now, so he sat up. Like that’d help. 

 

“Being away from him, if you’re - bonding does that. You’ll have physical reactions to things now.” 

 

Awesome, so this was a thing. 

 

Dean mumbled something about needing air, grabbed the keys to the Impala, and went outside to where she was sitting in the driveway next to dad’s truck. He had intended to go look for Sam, but instead he slipped the keys into the ignition, rolled down the window, and enjoyed the cooling air on his skin. 

 

Dean had closed his eyes then, took deep lungfuls of the pre-rain air. It calmed him down, but he still waited to look for Sam, wanted to give his brother the time he needed, too, even though it hurt Dean quite literally. 

 

Now, he’s feeling settled. It’s pretty scary, the whiplash of emotion and physical reaction that seem to go along with this...bonded thing. Mated thing? Dean didn’t know what to call it. 

 

Dad being gone honestly helps, there’s a diffuse quality to the air in the house now, like they’re no longer waiting for a fight to break out, and so Dean is comfortable sprawled on the living room couch in the comfortably warm light of the lamp. He could fall asleep honestly, if he weren’t waiting for Sam. 

 

He gets a glimpse of his brother, his beloved little heart, when Sam leaves the bathroom to get dressed in their shared bedroom. Dean acts normal, as if his heart isn’t pattering around in his chest like hummingbird wings when Sam comes back out looking warm and sleepy in sweats and Dean’s holey Black Sabbath shirt. 

 

Dean had known he was in love with Sam, but he  _ had  _ been able to ignore it for the most part--now he definitely could not do that even if he tried. 

 

“What?” Sam asked, cheeks pinking up as he shuffled over to where Dean had set a can of coke and the sandwich he’d made for Sam, and sat on the couch next to his big brother. 

 

“Nothin’,” Dean mutters with a shrug, turning his attention back to the TV and trying as hard as physically possible to not pay attention to the fact that their knees touch. 

 

“I know it’s not nothin’, Dean.” Sam cracks his Coke and tips it up to his mouth, eyes sliding to look at Dean sidelong as he takes a long gulp. His Adam’s apple bobs, and Dean sighs. 

 

“What’m I supposed to say?” He falls back against the worn but soft cushion of the couch, and watches his brother. “It’s awkward.” 

 

Sam’s lips quirk in the ghost of a sly smile. “Why? Cause your body wants me to have your babies, or what?” 

 

Honestly the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind, and the thought of children has always disgusted Dean. His biology, or DNA, or genes, or whatever makes him and Sam what they are, and it’s got different ideas. 

 

“No,” Dean tells him honestly, and sits forward to grab the last bite of his sandwich from his plate, “I don’t know, I could usually ignore what I um...whatever, but like this I can’t. It’s physical. When you left I flipped, I couldn’t breathe, it was awful.” 

 

A frown rumples Sam’s brow as he chews his mouthful and watches his brother, expression curious. “What does ‘could usually’ mean?” 

 

He knows, and Dean knows he knows, so why beat around the bush. 

 

Dean picks at the pilling fabric of his sweats, cut off at the knee. “I don’t know, um…” He’s fucking  _ bashful  _ and feels so goddamn stupid. Who knew the butterflies came with all this shit? “I love you, y’know? Like...but how dad said, not like in the rest of the world.” 

 

He doesn’t look up at Sam after he says it, instead Dean finishes off his coke, sets the can on his plate, and turns the channel. Sam keeps ominously quiet, eating and sipping while Dean resigns himself to a miserable existence full of unrequited, not-so-brotherly love. 

 

“Guess that makes it less awkward,” Sam finally pipes up, shrugging his shoulders though his eyes are focused on the TV. 

 

“Makes what less awkward?” If anything it made things  _ more  _ awkward, but Dean didn’t say as much yet. 

 

“Whatever dad called it,” Sam motions between them with a hand, “being uh. Mates? It’s probably not so bad if we love each other anyway.” 

 

Even though the way his lips twitch at the corner seems somewhat sad, Dean is glad for the small smile anyway, a grin blooming on his own face. 

 

“Yeah?” He asked, adjusting, bouncing on the couch cushion slightly. Sam finally smirked back at him, a pretty, bashful sort of thing as he ducked his head. All dimpled up for Dean, god, he was so gone for this boy. 

 

His...omega? Was that how that worked? 

 

“Yeah.” 

 

When Sam finishes his sandwich, he sits against Dean’s side like he used to when he was a lot smaller, and it didn’t have any implications. By the time the two of them are drifting off against one another, dad still isn’t home, so Dean softly nudges Sam awake enough that they can stumble back into their shared room. Two twin beds shoved up on either wall, and when Dean shucks the covers on his and climbs in, he sees that Sam is just...lingering by his own, shifting his weight. 

 

“Can I um - “ 

 

Dean smiles in the dark of the room, and pushes the covers back for Sam. 

 

“Yeah. C’mon.” 

All six feet and change of Sam folds into bed next to him, his back to Dean’s front because that’s how they’ll fit easiest and they both know it. Dean likes it, he fits up behind Sam easy as breathing, and his little brother lets him fold an arm over his middle, fist balled in that borrowed shirt right over Sam’s heart. 

 

The position also puts Sam’s plump little ass in unfortunate proximity to Dean’s cock, and he figures out pretty quick that a few inches of space is probably a good idea for now. 

  
  
  


Sam wakes up at some point in the middle of the night, not for long, or anything, but enough that he sees Dean sleeping next to him. He turned some time in the night, so they were facing one another, their noses brushing. 

 

He'd never felt quite so  _ right _ his entire life. 

 

Sam would hardly have to lean forward to kiss Dean. His alpha, and god, his mind had offered that up without much thought at all, which was...interesting to say the least. How involuntary this all was, like his body had been waiting for this to happen so it could do these things to him. He wonders if it's like that for Dean, and goes back to sleep.

 

When Sam wakes the second time it's for good, in the morning, and he's alone. It makes his stomach bottom out almost immediately, but there's a torn off hunk of notebook paper with Dean’s handwriting scribbled on it. 

 

_ Went to get shit for breakfast. Dad's hungover.  _

 

Which means dads hiding in the bedroom, and yeah he’s probably hungover, but it’s because he was trying to drink away the fact that his sons are for all intents and purposes, a couple now. A mated pair, or whatever the fuck. 

 

Sam laughs to himself at the thought. Good. He hopes John is fucking uncomfortable with this. 

 

Sighing, Sam rolls over and rubs at his stomach idly, and even though Dean’s gone, he can smell his brother on the sheets, on the motes of dust that dance lazily in front of the window. It makes him smile to himself, and he shifts again on the bed so he can glance over the door, but…

 

When he moves his legs, his skin slip-slides together in places that it really, really shouldn't. 

 

Squirming onto his side, Sam gets a hand behind himself and shoves it down his boxers. The cheeks of his ass are as soft and warm as they ever are, but it’s between them where he’s wet, so he skims a few fingers into his crack, and gives a shaky little gasp. 

 

_ Hot  _ and wet. Slick as his fingers slide through it, glancing briefly over his hole before Sam pulled his hand free to look at his hand. 

 

He rubbed his fingers together, watching the clear, shiny fluid web thick between them as he did, then again he reached down to prod at himself. It wasn't the first, fifth, or tenth time he'd touched himself there, so he doesn't feel shy about pressing to fingers against his asshole, slipping through the slick. 

 

The muscle there is soft, gives way too easily for those two fingertips, and Sam lets out a heavy sigh at the feeling. It's not even particularly arousing, and yet he wants to press his fingers deeper, get three or four inside himself with ease to  _ fuck _ \--

 

He would, if he weren't panicking over the fact that he was wet like a fucking girl, and how impossible that was. 

 

Sam pulls his hand away again and rolls out of bed, breathing shakily as he goes to the door, peeking out to see if Dean or dad are around. When he’s sure the coast is clear, Sam dashes over to the bathroom, slams the door, and locks it. 

 

He catches a glance of himself in the mirror and can’t help but stare; he looks the same, but it feels like he’s watching a stranger for a few seconds. 

 

Whatever. He doesn’t need that right now. 

 

It is beyond mortifying, and he let out a sad little whimper as he set a hand on the counter and reached back again, fingers gently slipping between the cheeks of his ass. 

 

Now that he’s fully awake, shocked into awareness, Sam can feel just how tender his hole is, the muscles lax and soft, but the skin is tender like it had already been fucked raw, only the attention Sam gives it feels good instead of bad. Sam frowns, lets his mouth fall open on another quiet sound as he presses two fingers all the way inside up to the knuckle. 

 

“Fu- _ uck,”  _ he breathes, and his skin is hot now, dick interested in the proceedings--until a heavy fist beats at the door. 

 

“Sam,” Dean calls, all ascetic concern, but it’s too much of a surprise.

 

Sam hiccups, chokes, his fingers jolting deeper inside when he flinches from the shock, and he clenches jaw, baring his teeth at his reflection before he withdraws his hand. 

 

“What’s wrong?” The handle jiggles, and Sam sighs as he reaches forward to unlock it with his sticky hand, smearing girl-juice all over the handle. He pulls the door wide to see Dean who looks like he hadn’t expected Sam to open the door that quick. 

 

“You alright?” He asks gently, gazing up at Sam so affectionately it makes his black little heart seize in his chest. 

 

“Don’t know.” Sam fists his hand in Dean’s shirt to pull him into the bathroom, watching his brother’s reflection bend into confusion in the mirror. 

 

“I - what’s going on? I have bacon frying.” 

 

Sam loves Dean, he really really really  _ really  _ does, but Jesus, sometimes he wants to strangle the guy. 

 

“Well this won’t take long, trust me. Put your hand down the back of my boxers.” Sam tries his best not to grumble it or think about Dean’s greasy breakfast fingers playing with his ass, and plants his hands on the counter again. Like he’s about to get railed into the next century, which. Wouldn’t be bad. 

 

“ _ What?! _ ” Big brother’s face screws up and his eyes go hilariously wide. 

 

“Just do it, alright, you’ll get it.” 

 

His cheeks are searing pink, so Sam hangs his head between his shoulders to hide it as he feels Dean’s body heat near him. God, but this must be all the bondalphaomega crap, because he’s never been able to feel Dean in the fucking  _ air _ around him, like Sam knows just how much space the love of his life displaces in this world. 

 

Dean plucks at the waistband of Sam’s boxers, hesitates, then pushes his hand down inside, all rough and too-warm against Sam’s softest skin. 

 

“See?” He mutters, feeling Dean’s fingers slide over his slippery skin. Tilting his head, he peeks over the curve of his own shoulder, but he still can’t see much more than Dean’s thigh. “‘M all wet like a girl.” 

 

The tip of Dean’s middle finger presses between, like Sam had done, then skims down the crack of Sam’s ass slowly. His wrist pulls at the elastic of the boxers, and Sam wants to shift his hips to accommodate. 

 

Dean snorts. 

 

“Like you know what that feels like.” 

 

And the stroke of his finger,  _ in,  _ is like how he’d touch a girl, dip in between her lips like he’s testing the waters. 

 

“Fuck you,” Sam bites, shifts his hips forward and away from Dean’s touch, even though every single atom, every cell, every nerve in his coltish fucking body is screaming at him to do the opposite. 

 

He spins and looks at Dean, pink-cheeked and more than a little miffed. His anger dies fairly quickly, because Dean rubs three of his fingers together that are covered in Sam’s-whatever, then shoves the first two in his mouth to the second knuckle. 

 

Sam chokes silently again, wants to flatten himself out on the counter for Dean’s taking this time, arch like an awful little slut and make his brother violate him before breakfast. 

 

Instead Dean shrugs, sucks, then moves back to the bathroom door. 

 

“Tastes like girl to me.” 

 

Sam shoves at his brother’s shoulder to send him stumbling through the doorway. 

 

“Your bacon’s burning, asshole.” 

 

Sam slumps into a chair in the kitchen to silently watch Dean fix breakfast, the TV playing morning cooking shows quietly a few feet away. It’s still raining outside and the petrichor seeps into the house through the old swamp cooler in the attic, along with a comfortable cool, so somehow, Sam feels….good. Feels okay. 

 

He shouldn’t, because his ass is leaking and that nagging pain is still nestled insistently in the bottom of his gut. It occurs to him as he listens to Julia Child hum about pastry, that the two things are probably related, and that there’s a 99% his father knows about it. Accordingly, there is a 100% chance that Sam isn’t going to fucking ask him. 

 

Before Dean can get breakfast on the table, dad shuffles out of his room, still in the clothes he was wearing yesterday. Sam can smell the hours-old booze on him, the general stink of a bar, and he keeps his eyes pointedly fixed on the TV so John has no chance to catch his gaze for a sympathetic or apologetic look. He doesn’t try, and instead makes his way silently into the kitchen to rifle around in the fridge. 

 

“Everything okay?” Dad mutters to Dean, quiet like he doesn’t want Sam to hear, which just makes him roll his eyes. 

 

“Um…”

 

Sam’s head snaps to Dean, and promises death in the look he gives his brother, mate or not. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” Dean mutters airily as he pulls down three plates, and starts to serve them all scrambled eggs and bacon. Sam wonders if his fingers still smell like Sam’s slick. 

 

(Which doesn’t seem to be an ongoing situation, he finds out when he shifts in his seat. Thank  _ god _ .) 

 

He sort of hopes they do, and sort of hopes dad can scent it. Sam hopes it disgusts their father that his brother touched him there, he hopes that John feels like he’s going to have to fight to keep them apart, because Sam is...ever since he found out that dad knew? He’s feeling vindictive. 

 

If he knows his father at all, he knows that John expects this to hinder Sam’s plans to leave, and he’s glad about it--they can stay together and be this fucked up little infantry unit and dad can continue to dictate their lives till he croaks. 

 

Sam has other ideas about it. 

  
  


They eat breakfast in relative silence, and Dean tries really hard not to sit next to his dad and not think about the fact that he’d had his fingers down his brother’s crack not twenty minutes previous. Or how Sam’s  _ taste _ is still rolling around on his tongue, salty sweet just like pussy, and god, Dean needs another taste. 

 

They haven’t even kissed yet. 

 

Dean can smell Sam, too, his scent a bit more heady than the day before, as if it’s hanging around in the air like the smell of rain, so even more embarrassing is the knowledge that dad can pick it up too. He  _ does _ avoid looking at Sam…

 

When they’re done eating, Sam cleans up the plates since Dean cooked (a years-old routine) and while he’s loading the dishwasher, dad turns in his chair to face the both of them somehow. 

 

“I’m uh...Bobby sent me a line on a case out here, looks like a couple of ghoul killings a few hours north. So I’m going to look into it, pack up here in a bit and take off. You two think you’ll be alright?” He sounds a bit too grim, but that’s just his way, Dean has learned. 

 

In the interim silence, Sam laughs softly, humorlessly. 

 

Dean swallows the news in silence, hoping his eyes dad couldn’t smell his relief. 

 

“Yeah, we’ll be fine,” he mutters, looking at the wood-patterned formica table and picking at one of the fraying edges. He isn’t disappointed in so many words, to not be invited along--he’s disappointed that his father would drop something like this in their laps, then leave. Especially with what happened to Sam this morning, which…

 

Well, he won’t bring it up if Sam doesn’t want dad to know. 

 

Bottom line is, they need his help and he's jumping ship, and while it's not the first time, it's one that really fucking makes Dean angry. 

 

He doesn't say anything else to their father as he stands up to help Sam with the cleanup, while dad watches them for a moment, then skulks back to his room to pack.

 

While they both have their hands buried in the sink filled with soapy water to wash up the pans, Sam looks over at Dean from behind the fringe of his bangs. His hair is too long. 

 

“You okay?” He asks, soft like he's 9 again and scared that Dean is hurt. Their shoulders brush, and that helps.

 

Dean sighs heavily and scrapes the Brillo pad over the cast iron skillet, then pulls the plug on the sink.

 

“Just. We get to figure this out on our own, I guess,” he says, eyes going unfocused as he stares at the dingy water getting sucked down the drain. 

 

Sam huffs what might be another laugh, and leans in to Dean’s space to say “What else is new?”

 

When Dean looks up at his little brother, Sam tips his head just so, and their mouths are pressed together, all off because of the angle but it's sweet, it's everything. Dean moves a soap-damp hand to the curve of Sam’s lower back, keeps it as light as the kiss is chaste. It’s nice, and the most tender kiss Dean has ever received. 

 

And he is so,  _ so, so  _ in love. 

 

They part, their eyes meet, and Dean feels like his insides are exploding, expanding ever outward into space and time to envelope Sam in whatever the fuck is going on. It’s bittersweet and lovely. 

 

Dean rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, thickened gradually with muscle in the last few years--luckily that’s one thing Dean still has on Sam, whose cheek then rests atop his head. 

 

For what feels like forever they stand there like that, watching nothing in particular happen in the back yard. The rain has let up just slightly, settling into a lazy drizzle that seems intent on lasting the rest of the day, which Dean is okay with. He sees himself with Sam on the couch later that night, nestled close together under the warm pool of the lamplight with the smell of rain still on the air, a decent movie on, and maybe some of that whiskey warm in his belly. 

 

“After you left last night, dad said we’d start to change--physically,” he offers, feeling a bit stupid for not telling Sam earlier. “So I guess that’s what the uh…” 

 

“Why I’m all wet? Yeah, I figured it had something to do with - “ Sam reaches a spindly hand up to where Dean had bit him a day ago, “this.” 

 

“‘S it still hurt?” Dean asks as he rounds Sam, reaching up to pull the old t-shirt collar aside. It goes easily, and reveals a pink sliver of scar, like it’s already a month old. “Woah…” 

 

He wants very suddenly to put his mouth there again, his body is drawing him in, closer, rapidly, until he  _ is,  _ just a brush of fallen-open lips. Breathes against it, and feels a little shudder work it’s way up, up, up his baby brother’s spine. 

 

“No. What’s it look like?” His voice is surprisingly level, if quiet. 

 

“Like that scratch on my hip, from the harpy,” Dean says, letting his hand fall from Sam’s shirt, and leaning his hip against the counter. “It’s all healed up.”

 

“Huh. Is fast healing a thing?” Sam frowns and dries some of the pans they’d been washing. 

 

Dean hadn’t even thought of it, he just thought that since it was...since it was the bite that bonded them or whatever that it would heal over quickly. Both he and Sam had taken their fair share of injuries in the last few years, but healed at a pretty normal rate, if not a little quicker, but Dean always chalked that up to the two of them being in pretty good shape. His dad, on the other hand, well the old man should have been scarred to hell and gone, but he wasn’t, now that Dean thought of it. Those hands alone would be gnarled and hard with years on the job. 

 

“Must be. Guess it doesn’t kick in till the rest does.” He shrugs his shoulders, and Sam’s fine brows raise. 

 

“Hm. Well, it seems like I got the short end of the stick, when it comes to shit kicking in. Physical change my ass, what’s different with you?” Sam is teasing, of course, but Dean feels a little guilty. 

 

“Don’t know yet,” he says with a shrug, eyes drifting to the sink, and the knife drying in the rack. “Lets see.” 

 

He grins at Sam as he picks up the knife, and with no preamble, cuts across the thin skin of his palm. Of course it hurts, and blood readily pools up in the cut as both Sam and Dean watch the wound carefully, but while the wound drips into the white porcelain sink, it doesn’t do so for long. Slowly the bleeding tapersss off, and right before their eyes the cut seals up, goes pink-scarred like Sam’s shoulder, then pearly white, then nothing. 

 

“Holy crap,” Dean breathes, eyes wide. 

 

“Shit.” Sam gazes over at him in awe as well, and the two of them turn when they hear dad stomp out of the hallway. 

 

“I smelled blood, what’s wrong?” He asks, looking only slightly alarmed--of course he probably knew that his boys will heal. 

 

“Just testing out the new bodies,” Sam pipes up. 

  
  


John knew he couldn’t talk to Sam about what was going to happen to him, or what would happen to Dean; his youngest as good as hates him right now, so he wouldn’t be happy with any explanation John could give him. Dean unlikely isn’t his biggest fan either, but at least he’ll listen. 

 

“Dean, wanna talk to you,” he says as sternly as he can manage, then nods down the hall. Perhaps going on a hunt right now is a bad idea, but the boys need some time, and John just...he can’t stomach being around Sam if his son went into heat, especially if it triggers Dean’s rut. 

 

Returning to packing his bag, John waits for Dean to appear in the doorway before he sighs, and zips up the duffel. Even if they’ve been here longer than most places, he still hasn’t unpacked much. 

 

“This isn’t easy for me to say, but you have to know, Sam has to know, and I know he doesn’t want to so much as be in a room with me,” he sighs, rubbing a hand over his stubbled face, “so...I know he’s changing, I can smell it on him, and if it keeps on that path, which it may not, Sam’s going to go into heat. It’ll be unpleasant for him, fever, aching, kind of like the flu usually--until he’s bred. That’s the only thing that helps, and why it happens. But you can’t Dean you - “ 

 

John swallows back a surge of bile in his throat. “You can’t. It’ll be hard for you, because your body’s going to respond to those pheromones, and it’ll be  _ hard.  _ But you - god, promise me you won’t, Dean. He’s your brother.” 

 

Dean is silent of course, eyeing John suspiciously with his jaw clenched tight. 

 

“It’s just his body, alright? It’ll telling him it needs an alpha, to be bred and knotted but - “ John shook his head. 

 

“Knotted?” Dean asks softly, his frown deepening the wrinkles between his brows. “Like...like dogs?” 

 

How he got here, John wishes he knew. There isn’t enough whiskey in the world to make telling your oldest son not to fuck his brother any easier. 

 

“That’s your part. You uh...it generally only happens when you’re in rut, to prevent unintentional mating or breeding, but that can be...you can get thrown into rut if your mate is in heat.”

 

Dean’s lips purse and he nods in that way when he’s swallowing information he fucking hates, and John understands, he does, even though it was never like this for him. His parents raised him to be an alpha, and Mary knew what he was when they met. 

 

_ God, if you could see us now, baby. I hope you aren’t watching.  _

 

He couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing he let this happen, that he raised their boys without telling them what they were. 

 

“Leave if you need to. Just be careful, is all I’m saying.” John lets his voice go hard, authoritative when he tells Dean that. 

 

“Yes sir,” his son answers immediately. 

 

For a little while John watches him, wondering if Dean answered like that because it’s what he’d been trained to do. 

  
  
  


Sam almost laughs when Dean tells him what dad had said, once the man himself is gone. Fucking coward, he couldn’t even face Sam and tell him himself. Whatever, didn’t matter now, did it? 

 

“So, so he basically had to tell you not to fuck me? That’s  _ priceless,” _ he tells Dean with a humorless smile, feeling again like he wants to fall into that laugh-sobbing again. This is just way too much, way too quickly. 

 

“Not the words he used, but yeah.” And poor Dean, he looks nervous, looks guilty like he already had given it to Sam and dad found out. Again, it’d be funny if it weren’t so fucked up. 

 

Biologically sanctioned incest. 

 

Sam sighs and reaches out for Dean, cradling his big brother’s face in his hands. He needs a shave. 

 

“‘S gonna be okay, Dean, I don’t - if it happens, I don’t care, alright? Er, well...I don’t - I don’t mind?” He isn’t sure how to say he’d be fine with Dean fucking him without...admitting something huge. 

 

Dean looks incredibly young when his brow furrows, and he looks hopefully over at Sam. “Yeah? I uh - I wouldn’t do it if you didn’t want it, I’m not some...rabid dog or whatever. Rut or heat or whatever, I’d - “ He shakes his head a little, breathes a sigh to make him relax. 

 

“Well um. For future reference, I do. Want it.” 

 

Sam tries to remember just how long he’s wanted it, when Dean gives him a charming smile as if he needs to. For a few months when Sam first figured out he loved Dean the way brothers aren’t supposed to, he was in denial, told himself it was just...hero worship and teenage hormones, but after a while he realized that wasn’t it. He  _ loved  _ Dean, plain and simple, and after a while he’d made peace with that. 

 

“Don’t fuck with me, Sammy,” Dean says with a laugh, and Sam can’t help but dimple up for him too. 

 

“I’m not, I promise.” 

 

Then Dean is pressing forward to kiss him again, different from their last one--their first. Dean plies Sam’s lips apart gently with his tongue, coaxes him wide but Sam is all too happy to oblige. He slides his hands back to Dean’s jaw, his neck, fingers petting restlessly as he sucks on Dean’s tongue, sucks his taste right off it. God, it’s good, it’s so fucking perfect that Sam wants to cry. Even whimpers into the kiss, realizes he’s clinging to Dean’s hair and squirming closer to him where they sit on the couch. 

 

Dean withdraws, slow about it, and pets Sam’s flank, his back. “Easy, baby boy, take it easy.” 

 

And Sam would, if it weren’t for the nickname. Fuck. He sighs like he’s been hit in the gut, and presses his forehead into Dean’s. 

 

“If you’re not gonna fuck me, right here right now, don’t call me that,” he whispers, wet against his brother’s lips. Dean laughs at that, presses a final, soft kiss to Sam’s mouth. 

 

“Fair enough. Not yet, okay? Wanna make sure it’s good for you, that you’re uh...sure.” So sweet, Sam’s brother. 

 

He smirks and sits back against the couch, crossing his arms over his stomach and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “Bet you say that to all the girls.” 

 

Dean gives him a skeezy grin, and pushes up from the couch to busy himself with god knows what--salt lines, guns, who knew, but Sam didn’t care. With dad gone and Dean here, knowing Sam’s last, deepest secret, everything felt just fucking perfect. 

 

Things go not so perfect three days later when Sam starts to sweat. 

 

He’s on the couch with Dean, each of them on one end with their hairy legs all tangled and boyish in the middle, when Dean’s body heat becomes almost stifling. Gently, Sam kicks away and curls his legs up close to his chest. 

 

“You okay?” Dean asks with genuine concern. He’s been hovering like that since dad left, you doing okay, feel alright, anything different? Now is the only time Sam has an answer that is conclusive. 

 

“Yeah, ‘m just hot,” he mutters back, not taking his eyes off the TV for anything even though he could feel that familiar slip of skin, slick in the crack of his ass. 

 

They eat dinner, shower together and try not to piss on each other's feet. Dean makes dog jokes, and when they're done Sam doesn't feel good; his body is starting to ache, the beginnings of a cold. He sniffs and looks at the bed he hasn't slept in for days. 

 

“Um...I don't want to get you sick,” he tells Dean as his brother is sliding into bed, already scooting aside to make room for Sam. Always making room for Sam. 

 

In the dark of the room, Dean looks up at him sweetly, so fond.“‘Kay, I'll be right here. Lemme know if you need anything.” 

 

Sam needs, alright. 

 

Doesn't know how or what for the first night and that next morning, just shivers with fever on the couch while his brother attempts to take care of him. Dean plies him with water and Gatorade, need to stay hydrated baby, makes Sam toast. 

 

Fourth night, second night of the sickness, Sam figures it out. 

 

He sleeps fitfully, but deep enough to dream, and every dream is of his brother. It's all Dean, his scent, what knowledge Sam had of his taste, and a yawning chasm of black emptiness Sam can  _ feel _ in his sleep. His body is soil, turned up, out by gentle fingers cupping him, pressing finger into his deepest pits until he's ready to sow. 

 

Dean again, plush and golden and pink and green, where Sam is a wraith in his own dream, slim, pale, desperate for something. For the light Dean seems to always have hidden under his skin, for him to fill Sam like an empty vase.

 

_ “ - so they'd stay with me forever.”  _ A lover echoes around them, familiar and kindred with Sam’s heart.

 

He wants Dean to consume him, like the lover, so they'd be one, always. 

 

Sam wakes after that revelation, panting like a fucking bellows. Everywhere, he's slick and sticky in varying ways, sweat soaking into the bedclothes, cock leaking into his boxers, cunt drooling for what he doesn't know how to ask for. 

 

Clutching at his pillow and moans, moves his legs again and again to feel his own slick, rub his dick into the firm bed. Maybe if, maybe if he just gets off? It'll be better?

 

Sam bites into his lip to keep himself quiet, face half smothered in the pillow as he pushes his hand down past the elastic of his boxers to get at his hole. He's even hotter, wetter than before and he can smell himself, sweetsoursalty almost like rotting meat. His cock flexes, drips into the sheets. 

 

As his fingers, tenderly, carefully, feel at the kitten furl of his hole, Sam finds himself open for two fingers easily, for a third and fourth and  _ god _ . He's almost glad Dean is sleeping. Almost. 

 

Four fingers into the wet slop of his hole, and it's not enough. Sam pushes them deep, tries to reach his prostate, but at this angle just can't, and he sobs for it. Can't reach, not enough, still feeling fucking empty with his fist almost sunk into his ass. So, so god damn empty, like his guts are that gaping void from his dreams, like he’ll die if he doesn't get fucked soon. 

 

_ It's that then, isn't it _ , Sam thinks. _ I'm a bitch in heat.  _

 

The humiliation of the thought makes him squirm with how much he doesn't mind it. 

 

“Mmmh...Sammy?” Comes Dean’s voice, and Sam stills, realizes just how loud he's been in the silence of the night. He doesn't reply to Dean, instead watches his brother while his mouth gapes wordless and drooling into his pillow. 

 

Sitting up on an elbow, Dean blinks blearily over at Sam, who winces at the wet slurp when he pulls his fingers free from his hole. The muscle clenches up, tiny gatekeeper. 

 

“...Sam?” Dean’s tender quiet. “You okay?” 

 

“No,” Sam whimpers, and before he can stop himself he's scrambling out of his bed, into Dean’s.

 

Worse-better again, being so close to his brother, alpha,  _ fuck. _

 

_ “ _ Don't know, just, need to come, maybe? I don't know. ‘M fucking soaked and it's just - I'm still too hot - “ 

 

Dean tries to soothe him through his babbling with gentle hands, but it's bad because Sam needs them on him hard, in him. Reach up inside till he can cradle Sam’s heart, and maybe that will fill him up. 

 

“Take it easy, baby boy, alright. I'm gonna open the window,” he speaks so carefully, like he's approaching a hurt animal. 

 

But god, he is, isn't he? Sam laughs to himself as Dean stood up on his bed to toss open the window above them. The weather had been staying cool in the evenings, and even though it hadn’t rained today, cool air blew softly through the screen. It chilled the sweat on Sam’s skin and he shudders, hating the contrast of the cooling sweat and the infernal heat of his skin. 

 

“De-Dean,” he stammers out, teeth chattering, “I know-I know dad said no-not to, but you gotta, okay,  _ please _ .” 

 

When Dean is next to him in bed again he says nothing, so Sam reaches out, fists his hands in Dean’s sleep shirt, all warm with his delicious body heat. He smells like...well he smells like  _ Dean,  _ something Sam can never put words to, but for now it just smells like sex. 

 

Dean whispers “ _ Sam _ ,” and Sam can taste it in the sliver of space between their mouths, so he leans in to kiss Dean artlessly. It’s pushy, squashes their face together and their lips don’t match up, but that’s the nice thing about kissing, isn’t it, however you do it it still kinda counts. Still feels fucking good. Sam sucks desperately on Dean’s tongue, just wants his brother  _ inside  _ any way he can get him. 

 

“Okay, alright, just hold on, okay? Just let me - “ He rolls them so he can pull out the bedside table drawer, arm stretching up next to Sam’s face which--

 

Sam buries his face against the nook of Dean’s armpit, god, where he’s the most  _ Dean,  _ smell so strong and pure and Sam moans wetly into the fabric of his brother’s shirt. 

 

“Jesus, Sam - “

 

“Don’t need lube, trust me,” Sam mutters even though he’s taken with rubbing his muzzle (ha ha) in Dean’s armpit. “No condom either, Dean, don’t you dare.” 

 

That very obviously makes Dean clam up. 

 

“No, fuck you know I can’t do that,” he pants, his voice finally tipping toward keyed up in the way Sam is. “I’m not - I don’t - “

 

Pulling back, Sam rests his head back on the pillow, hair wild undoubtedly wild and wet with sweat, then settles his hands on Dean’s hips. He toys with his brother’s shirt, pushes his fingers just under the hem to feel skin, make Dean feel him in return. 

 

“Don’t wanna get me knocked up,” he murmurs, chewing into the meat of his bottom lip and rucking Dean’s shirt up gradually, “‘cause you’re worried about daddy’s gonna say if you do?” 

 

Sam is absolutely playing dirty and knows it, but batts his wet eyelashes up at Dean, alpha, doesn’t care. 

 

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean sighs like Sam just slit his belly open, then hangs his head so his hair brushes baby brother’s collar bone. Even that makes him shiver, undulate, his skin hot and over-sensitive. “I can smell you all fuckin’ wet, Jesus.” 

 

He shakes his head, but shifts his weight enough to snake a hand between them, up the loose leg of Sam’s soaked boxers to tease at the crease of his ass. Sam whimpers ( _ bitch) _ , and spreads his legs, lets his knees knock wide so Dean can reach. 

 

“Please, Dean, god, please, please, just do it, fuck me please.” He’s whining now, tosses his head on the pillow like he’s throwing a tantrum, and supposes he sort of is. Fussy for dick. 

 

Dean kisses him soft, pushes two fingers where Sam’s way too ready for him, has been forever now, and makes his brother keen for him. Hands scrabble at those thick big-boy shoulders, wide where Sam is tall, tug and nearly tear the fabric for his desperation. The fingers inside of him feel like too little too late, and only leave Sam with hot tears in his eyes. They start to stream down his temples as he sobs, which later seems pretty fucking embarrassing, but for now he just hopes they motivate Dean. 

 

“Sam?” He sighs, obviously frightened by the tears, and suddenly his fingers are gone, sticky on Sam’s cheeks instead. 

 

Sam hiccups on his in-breaths, tries to hold back so hard his lips and chin tremble. 

 

“S-sorry, I’m sorry I just - “ Shaking his head, he wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, wanting him as close as he can get him. It helps. “‘S not enough, and I’m burning up, I’m - it’s just, it’s weird, okay.” 

 

How speaking helps too Sam doesn’t understand, but as long as he’s not baby-sobbing into Dean’s shirt when he wants to get fucked, that’s good enough for him. Again Dean’s mouth is on his skin, licking softly at his mouth and kissing at his jaw, his tear-ruddy cheeks while his hands stroke down over Sam’s naked chest with a gentleness he’d never really felt from his big brother. 

 

“It’s alright, Sam, just breathe with me, okay? In ‘n’ out, c’mon.” Dean takes a deep breath in example, and Sam nods, doing the same. 

 

Dean watches him to make sure Sam does as he’s asked, so they fall into sync that Sam eventually is loathe to break it. He wants it as much as he wants Dean inside of him, and finds himself focusing on that more than a lot of other things. 

 

Smiling tenderly, Dean plucks at his shirt that’s now damp with some of his sweat and Sam’s. “Can I get up, get this off?” He doesn’t move until Sam nods, god bless him. 

  
  
  


Dean shucks his shirt and boxers a little too eagerly for his own liking, but they’re down the rabbit hole now, so whatever. Of course Sam accommodates him when he crawls back in between the haven of little brother’s thighs, legs spread as Dean reaches for Sam’s underwear too. 

 

That cloying smell is in the air again, and Dean didn’t even have to know what was going on with Sam for his dick to get hard, his body just responded to the scent embarrassingly quickly. Before Sam was even in his bed, so Dean’s body was apparently three steps ahead of his brain. 

 

Sam starts to squirm again, very obviously restless, so Dean reaches out to smooth hands over his brother’s strong, if not thin, thighs, before he reaches up to tug gently at Sam’s boxers. 

 

“Sammy, look at me, c’mon, it’s alright,” he murmurs, tries not to shake too bad when he pulls the sopping fabric down his brother’s legs. Those eyes are dark when they turn down to watch him, and Sam lifts his legs out of his underwear so Dean can throw them aside. 

 

Now that he’s naked, Sam’s wide splay of legs gives Dean a view of him he’d never thought he’d see; his balls are hugged up tight to the almost painful looking cock, shiny purple at the tip where he’s undoubtedly been leaking for too long, and just under Sam’s beautiful, plump little taint, his hole winks under Dean’s scrutiny, flexing convulsively. Shy darling, sticky sweet that Dean wants on his tongue. That slick is smeared all over the insides of his thighs, flaking dry on the edges and light catching where he’s still wet. 

 

“Shit...” Dean sighs, because he is...he is fucked. He knows pretty much instantly how pussy-whipped he is for Sam, for the soft insides of his thighs, his begging. Whether or not Sam could...that they’d...have...a kid is…..so, so far from Dean’s mind right now, even when it had been there a few moments ago. How easily his mind is changed. 

 

“C’mon Dean, please, need it,” Sammy whimpers and it’s precious. Tips his cheek to his shoulder as he looks down at Dean and pouts. 

 

“Yeah, and I’m gonna give it to you, just take it easy.” 

 

Dean props himself up on one hand over Sam, lets his weight rest through his hips which slots his cock up against Sam’s. He’s thicker than Sam though they’re about the same size, and by all rights he shouldn’t expect his cock to fit the very first time, but Sam took two fingers like nothing…

 

With his free hand he takes himself in hand, arches his back so he can reach the crack of Sam’s ass, and rubs the head of his cock through all that sticky sweetness. Sam was right, there was definitely no need for lube; already Dean had it all over his knuckles just from smearing his cock down Sam’s crease in the worst kind of tease, but he can’t really help it. Can’t help but slap his dick wetly against that hungry little pussy, and Sam  _ whines.  _

 

“‘M gonna kill you,” he whimpers, lips trembling again, and Dean bites back a smile. 

 

He starts to push in, thumb on his cock head, and god it’s too easy, it shouldn’t be this fucking easy. “Easy baby,” murmurs Dean, moving his hand to the pillow Sam’s head lays on. 

 

The head of his cock  _ pops _ inside, sound obscene, filthy in the best way possible, and already Dean can feel those muscles start to work around him like they’re trying to suck him deeper into little brother guts. 

 

Over a decade of training has given Sammy strong, if not stringy, sinewy muscles, so when his thighs fit up against Dean’s flanks, knees pressing into ribs, ankles crossed and pushing insistently, it feels like Sam’s trying to squeeze the life out of him. 

 

Or maybe that’s just how Dean feels, sliding deeper into the searing clutch of his brother’s body. 

 

Sam isn’t shaking anymore, he’s gone relatively lax save for his legs wrapped around Dean; his mouth is fallen open, eyes shut and brow furrowed while his spindly hands press light against Dean’s neck. 

 

“Fucking  _ beautiful _ ,” is punched out of Dean, like he’s in awe of the observation. 

 

Slow, like he needs to be, he sinks further inside, pushing in, in, and god, even though Sam’s body welcomed him like his dick was meant to be there, it’s still fucking tight around him. There’s nothing better than this, Dean’s sure. 

 

Beneath him Sam sighs delicately, sweetly, sounding a few years younger while he flexes his hips to rock himself on Dean’s dick. Since apparently Dean apparently wasn’t active enough for his liking, but god is it beautiful to watch, and so he lets Sam do it a few more times as he brushes the sweat-soaked hair from his brother’s forehead. 

 

“Say something,” he pants, already half as gone as Sam whose eyes slit open, affronted like Dean woke him up. 

 

“Like wha-at?” The last syllable bleeds off into a lovely little moan, and Dean can’t help but lean down to lick its remnants out of Sam’s ruddy mouth. His fingers are in Dean’s hair then, cradling his skull and pulling him closer like there’s any space in between them anyway as Dean slides his hips back, then feeds Sam his dick again. Little brother purrs for him. 

 

“‘S it okay?” It’s a question he already knows the answer to, but Dean is a talker, even during sex, which some partners liked, some didn’t. Sam, just now, didn’t seem to be enjoying it. He opens his eyes again to look at Dean like a kitten woken up from a nap, a bit watery eyed and a lot insulted. 

 

“Is it  _ okay?”  _ He asks, full of sarcasm, but his voice is clearer now. “My -  _ hhhuh -  _ my body was literally-literally begging for your dick a-annn-and you’re asking if it’s o- _ kay? _ ”

 

Dean fucks him through it, jarring Sam’s words with his rocking hips, and smiles all teeth against his boy’s mouth. Bites at it, nibbles his lips. 

 

“Just checking,” he sighs, pushes in with a bit more force and watches Sam’s face screw up almost like it hurts. 

 

“ _ Fuckohmygod  _ keep, keep - like that, Dean please.” 

 

Sam’s hands flutter at thick shoulders like he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with himself, which is sort of flattering. 

 

Because he is who he is, utterly devoted to the body and soul and blood and bone beneath him, Dean does as he’s told, goes faster too so his balls slap against the dripping wet that Sam’s been leaking all night. It’s obscene and filthy and Dean’s Favorite New Thing. The new rhythm makes Sam’s drippy cock skip-slide and bob over his belly, still slightly concave with youth or when he sucks in an especially deep breath. 

 

“‘M gonna come, shit shit I’m - fuck - “ 

 

It almost happens just cause Dean was looking at it, but he smiles as he lifts up from Sam so he can watch the creamy smear of it all over Sam’s tummy. The smile doesn’t last for long because Sam’s muscles are clenchclench _ clenching  _ up on him, constricting and sucking the breath right out of Dean’s lungs. 

 

“Jesus Sammy,” he pants as he reaches down to touch his brother’s pretty dick. Pretty, pretty, it’s all fucking pretty, his stomach sucking in, jizz lovingly dribbled into his pubes, god Dean is in love. 

 

“Alright,” Sam sighs like they just got something out of the way. “Load me up, Dean.” It’s so simple, so quiet and easy and Dean makes some sort of embarrassing noise, a groan or a squawk. Sam smiles, pets him, drags him down into a kiss. 

 

It probably would be embarrassing, how fast Dean feels his orgasm coming up on him, but these are extenuating circumstances and he’s made Sam come twice already. Especially when Dean feels his dick get fucking  _ harder,  _ and there’s no good way to describe how popping your knot for the first time feels, is there?

 

He’s panting Sam’s name, and when it hits, Dean buries his cock as deep as he can go, rocking in, in, as if he weren’t already snugged up into Sam’s intestines. And Sammy gasps, eyes a little wide and fingers digging into Dean’s biceps for dear life. 

  
“Jesus, Dean, what the  _ fuck,”  _ he sighs as his eyes roll back just a little at the swell of Dean. 

 

Dean The Talker can’t say anything, his vision sort of...odd, glazed over, and he bears grit teeth as he tries again to push further, because it feels fucking good and he’s  _ coming,  _ yeah, that’s it. He washes Sam’s insides with it, unloads into him with long pulses that almost fucking hurt for how good it feels, and it just keeps  _ going… _

 

He only vaguely notices Sam jacking his cock furiously under him, hips rocking again before he wrings a third orgasm out of that bloody-purple cock. 

 

Dean keeps coming for longer than he can comprehend, and when he sort of comes to, he’s shaking, and his cock is still pumping lazily into Sam, whose hands are cradling his face. 

 

“You okay?” He asks softly, the fog of heat cleared. Inhaling deeply ( _ mixed scent of them, just right) _ , Dean nods, and he’s not thinking straight when he reaches down to pull out of Sam. 

 

They share a wince; it’s tight, impossible, and Dean can feel the huge swell of his knot through the skin around Sam’s used little hole. 

 

“Christ,” he sighs, slumps defeated down onto Sam’s chest. Carefully, though. 

 

Sam laughs and gets fingers into his brother’s hair again. “Yeah.” 

 

Silence settles, save for the noise of the nearby highway floating in with the breeze, and they catch their breath and come back down to the real world where Dean wonders if he’s done something they can’t come back from. 

 

Well, they definitely have, but he means, like. Getting Sam knocked up, because currently that is a huge possibility. 

 

Dean lifts his head with a quiet sigh so he can look at Sam, who is staring intently back. In fact his expression is placid, utterly content, which is lovely--Dean doesn’t remember the last time his brother felt any of those things, so he smiles and stretches up to kiss his brother’s soft mouth. 

 

“So,” he says, thumbing over the shells of Dean’s ears, “that’s that, huh?” He puts on a mischievous little smile that makes Dean grin in return. 

 

“Yeah I uh... _ yeah.”  _

 

Even when they laugh together, he can feel it around his cock somehow, the tiny shifting of Sam’s body now magnified with how they’re tied together. Sam seems to notice too, and brings a foot up from where it’s been planted on the bed to rub along Dean’s calf, like a lover. 

  
  
  


“I like it like this,” Sammy murmurs, his eyes moving aimlessly over Dean’s face and touching him just the same, “like how deep you are.” He’s not aiming for dirty talk, just wants Dean to know how good this feels for him on a level that isn’t sexual. 

 

He no longer feels like he’s filled to bursting, which must mean that some of Dean’s come had seeped out around the thick knot of his cock however impossible that seemed, but he sort of liked that too, the full feeling. It still stays because Dean is still in him. Will be for the foreseeable future. 

 

“Yeah,” Dean says so softly it’s barely there, glancing down to where Sam’s belly is a little full of...him. 

 

There’s a lot they both feel but aren’t going to say, and Sam wonders later if maybe he should have, if it would have made a difference for Dean. 

 

When the swollen bulge of Dean’s knot starts to deflate, they pull away from one another with half-smiling grimaces and licked lips. Sam feels the warmth of his brother’s jizz try and trickle out of him, so he clenches up just as tight as he can to keep it inside, not even on breeding instinct, but because it’s  _ dirty  _ and he wants Dean inside him for as long as he can keep him. 

 

Even still, they’re both an utter mess along with the bed, so they strip the bed and decide on a shared shower. It’s good. Sam’s never felt so settled right down to his bones, like literally nothing else matters but this. He could be contented with a belly full of Dean’s come, with playfully scrubbing each other’s hair, three of Dean’s fingers holding his sore hole open to Sam can properly wash up. 

 

But dad comes back after three weeks of that bliss, and it’s as if nothing has changed, and Sam’s heart breaks. Dad yells at Dean because he  _ can smell it on you two, what did I tell you! _ While Sam gets between them and defends his brother, his lover boy. 

 

Dad says some insulting shit, storms to his bedroom, and Sam starts to cry, because no, he isn’t going to stay, how could he? 

And Dean won’t come to California, citing obligations to a dead woman Sam never knew, but ducking his head in guilt, avoiding his little brother’s eyes. 

  
It’s like nothing has changed. 

**Author's Note:**

> as always you can find me here on [tumblr](http://mwildsides.tumblr.com/).


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